


just, maybe.

by discordrhythm



Category: Electronic Dance Music
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 06:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11202123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discordrhythm/pseuds/discordrhythm
Summary: a story about falling in love with your best friend, and all the highs and lows that come with it.





	1. say less

**Author's Note:**

> dillon's a fuckboy but a really emotional one hehe
> 
> this story will have many relationships, but ultimately is dillon/porter

**Prologue**  
The thing about life is that more often than not, it surprises you. Maybe it's the unexpected new iPhone when you come home from school one day. Or the promotion from your boss because one of your higher coworkers moved to some random place like Switzerland. Or maybe it's the subtle things, like finding a dollar on the ground. Or the random "hello" from an old friend who you haven't spoken to in a year. Or falling in love with your best friend. Regardless, life does this funny thing where the most unpredictable situation happens at the perfect time. And maybe, at first, it isn't what you expected. But maybe, it's exactly what you wanted. Just maybe.  
  
-  
  
**Chapter One**  
Dillon’s fumbling through the club with no other purpose in mind except he need to get fucking laid. So what, he’s a little drunk and it’s barely even 6PM but in his defense, he’s had a fucking shitty day and he deserves this. He had spent 19 hours working on a new song when his computer crashed and he lost everything. Not to mention his fire alarm wouldn't stop beeping all morning even after he took the batteries out. Yeah, he deserves this, Dillon thinks as he takes another sip from whatever the fuck the bartender had handed him. To be honest, he had just walked up to the bar in yesterday’s t-shirt and disheveled hair and asked for the strongest liquor they had. Not his brightest moment. The drink itself is pretty fucking disgusting, but it gets Dillon loose enough to walk up to some nerdy brunette and shove his hand down his pants and next thing he knows, he’s being pushed up against the bathroom stall and his pants are around his ankles, so it’s not _too_ bad.  
  
-  
  
“Hello?” a groggy voice says from the other end of the line.  
  
“Porter! Porter.” Dillon says. “I’ve been calling you for forever. I need you to pick me up.”  
  
“Get your whore to do it.” Porter grumbles, but Dillon knows that he’s getting out of bed and finding his keys as they speak. He smiles when he hears rustling on the other end.  
  
“I can’t.” Dillon pauses. “He can’t drive.”  
  
“Jesus fuck Dillon. How old was this one?”  
  
Dillon thinks back to the brunette. What was his name? Mike? Mat? “I don’t know,” Dillon admits. “Young enough to be fucked five times nonstop?”  
  
“You’re fucking disgusting.” Porter says.  
  
“I know, I know. You tell me every time. Can you come get me?”  
  
“Where are you?” Porter sighs and Dillon can hear the door close.  
  
Dillon looks at his surroundings, trying to find anything familiar. “By Sunset.”  
  
“I’ll be there soon. Keep your location on. Don’t fucking move.” Dillon hears the engine roar to life.  
  
“I literally can’t even walk.”  
  
The phone disconnects.  
  
Porter’s there, thirty minutes later, water bottle in hand and a smirk on his face when he sees how fucked over Dillon is.  
  
“You look like shit.”  
  
“Thanks.” Dillon says as he climbs into the seat and takes the water bottle.  
  
“It’s 4 fucking AM.” Porter replies.  
  
“You’re the best.”  
  
“You’re the worst.” Porter says, but he’s got a faint smile on his face.  
  
They’ve repeated this exact conversation over a hundred times, each time Porter has to pick Dillon up in random places at awful hours. Dillon really is grateful though. He shows this in some other way: dinner if they’re not both in the studio, breakfast if he gets up on time, a cup of coffee on the countertop when Porter gets home. It’s always subtle, but he knows that Porter understands. It’s nice, Dillon thinks, to have someone who he can always depend on, even with their busy schedules. Looking back now, it seems crazy to be where they are now. Dillon remembers the first time he ever saw Porter live, full of energy and awkwardness, in constant disbelief that people were there to watch him. Porter, who was snarky and jumpy and nerdy. Porter, who hated thunderstorms but performed like lightning. Porter, who, after a few tours, some remixes here and there, and lots of coffee runs, Dillon had grown accustomed to in his life.  
  
“Your place or mine?” Porter asks, waking Dillon up from his memories.  
  
“Yours.” Dillon murmurs, even though he knows that Porter is already headed there. They both have their own apartments in LA, but Dillon’s is too big sometimes; it feels lonely at night, when he's drunk and on his own. When they get there, Porter helps Dillon up the stairs. He leads him to the guest room, which Dillon has officially proclaimed as “his room”. He makes Dillon wash his face and drink more water, then pulls the blanket over him and walks to his own bed, turning off the lights as he leaves.  
  
The next morning, there’s a cup of coffee on the countertop and a Post-It waiting for Dillon, as always.  
  
Dillon takes a sip of his coffee (two sugars, one splash of milk, always perfectly made) before reading the note.  
  
_“Went to the studio,”_ it reads. _“Ur manager called; u have a studio call at 1. U can take a car.”_  
  
Dillon looks at the clock. 12:20. Fuck. He downs his coffee and rushes to the bathroom, checking the damage. Three hickeys on his neck, one on his thigh, and _what the fuck_ one on his lower back. He dabs at his neck with the makeup Porter bought for him because of the _“secondhand embarrassment of being out with you with nebulas on your neck”_ or whatever Porter said, and because his manager will fucking kill him if he has to track down another hook up to sign an NDA (once a dude tried selling Dillon’s dick pics on eBay. Like what the fuck). When he’s satisfied with his appearance, he rummages through the hall closet full of his clothes, pulls whatever on, and runs out the door, keys in hand. Porter’s left his Honda, not his Audi, which makes Dillon sigh, but he gets in the car anyway. The clock in Porter’s car reads 12:35. Fuck yes, he can do this.  
  
Dillon revs the engine then pulls out and stomps hard on the pedal, weaving his way through 405 traffic to get to the Valley.  
  
He knows he’ll be slightly late, having repeated this same routine innumerable times in the past. His manager will berate him for five minutes, then give up, resigned. He’ll stay in the studio for at least 6 hours, fine-tuning an edit. And tonight, he’ll go over to Porter’s so he can make a simple pasta dinner and put on a movie, one they’ve seen a million times like Spirited Away or Bad Teacher. They’ll eat on the couch and cry or laugh until they’ve fallen asleep. Porter will wake up an hour or so later. He’ll put the dishes in the dishwasher and shake Dillon awake to ask if he wants to go home. Dillon never goes. It’s always the same. It’s how they spend time together in their hectic, fast paced lives. It’s how Dillon knows he’s forgiven and how Porter knows he’s appreciated. It’s the unspoken apologies, the hugs not given, the time well shared. But more than that, it’s the “thank you for being here” without the awkward silence after. It’s comfortable, friendly, secure.  
  
In a world where things are always changing, there are the small things that you have to hold on to. Dillon holds on to this.


	2. we are impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude what the fuck? I’m not in love with Porter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> titles are dillon songs lol

Two weeks later, Porter leaves to open for Anton on his tour. The tour is three months long, which isn't too bad, but Dillon’s always bored without Porter around (and he has to Uber back from his hook ups). It's a whatever. He gets into the studio more, finally finishes some mixes, and hangs with Wes. He and Wes get along well enough. Wes is a great wingman, and Dillon would be lying if he said he doesn't love his kids.

Dillon texts Porter sometimes, more when he's drunk, but he knows Porter's busy so he doesn't expect much. He's not surprised, though, when he receives a Facetime call from Porter a week before the tour hits LA. Dillon’s just having dinner in his apartment, so he leans his phone on his cup and picks up. He can immediately tell that Porter’s absolutely plastered.

“Dillon!!!” Porter beams.

“Hey man! How's it going?”

“Sooo good. It’s soooo good. The, the tour and everything. Thumbs up.”

Dillon laughs. “Good to hear man.”

“I’m soooo drunk.”

“I can tell. You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just… Really drunk.” Porter whispers conspiratorially.

“I won't call the cops.” Dillon promises.

Porter laughs, sways. “Are you gonna…” The camera shakes a bit, then refocuses back on Porter. “Come to the LA show?”

“Of course, what else would I be doing?”

“Just checking!” Porter hiccups. “There's… I have someone… you should meet them?”

“You have someone?”  
  
Porter nods enthusiastically.

Dillon shakes his head. “You're plastered man. What are you even trying to say?” he asks through a mouthful of pasta.

Porter’s face scrunches up. He’s silent for a moment, just swaying side to side.

“It’s, um. I’m, haha, um, well I guess I’ve started dating someone?”

Dillon stops chewing his food. He abruptly thinks he might be getting food poisoning or something, because his stomach hurts suddenly and he's feeling a little weird but he can't place it.

“You know… Um, Hugo?” Porter continues. “He's opening for me on this tour.”

And yeah, Dillon knew that — he knows the lineup for the shows Porter plays, but he — Dillon’s pretty confused. Porter doesn't date? He’s pretty sure he didn't even know Porter was into guys, and that feels like something your best friend should know, what the fuck —

“And I guess he and Anton are good friends so I don't know why we’ve never met before? You might know him, um, I don't know, it's pretty new obviously but it’s like…. you know.” Porter giggles, sways to the music. Dillon’s feeling a little nauseous.

“That's… that's cool man. Good for you.” Dillon tries to smile but that’s apparently more difficult than he remembers it being.

“Yeah, and I’m excited for you to meet him,” Porter rambles. “I think you guys would get along!”

He doesn’t know about that. His appetite is gone; he pushes his plate away. He honestly might throw up — there's something caught in his throat — but he doesn't want Porter to see that so —

“Listen man, I gotta go. Was supposed to be in the studio twenty minutes ago,” Dillon lies, even though it’s 10pm and he is definitely not going into the studio right now. “I’ll see you next week! Drink water.”

“Oh. Okay. Byeeeee!” Porter winks at the phone before hanging up.

Dillon breathes in. He’s feeling tight, anxious. His stomach is still bothering him and he’s finding it hard to breathe. And it's weird, if this is an allergic reaction, because he hasn't done anything in the past five minutes to merit this? He looks down at his plate and wonders if you can develop a sudden allergy to shrimp. Dillon rests his head in his hands. He needs some air.

-

Air turns into clubbing with Wes, who introduces him to a cute brunette with a crooked smile and he kind of looks familiar but Dillon can't place it, he's too drunk. The next thing he knows he's on his knees in an alleyway, and the only thing he feels are the hands in his hair.

-

Dillon’s honestly dreading going to Anton’s show, but he can't come up with a decent excuse not to. He doesn't even know why he doesn't want to go — Porter’s fantastic live, and it’ll be good to see Anton again. Regardless, he’s still not feeling totally up for it on the day of, so he begs Wes to go with him — Wes always knows how to make him have a good time.

They get to the venue and it's kind of crazy, but he and Wes snake their way to the buses. Porter’s outside, talking to Sonny. Hugo’s there too, one hand in Porter’s, the other gesturing animatedly. Dillon has a brief, confusing moment where he wants to run away, but it dulls once Porter sees him and waves him over.  
  
They make their way over to the boys and say their hello’s. Hugo and Porter are still holding hands when Dillon goes to shake Hugo’s, and Dillon’s automatically doesn't like Hugo and he doesn't have any reason to not like him, he just does. Anton finds them a moment later and immediately corrals them all into a group photo.

They spend the next few hours just hanging out, talking. Dillon’s still feeling uncomfortable, but he's doing better. Maybe it was just the pollen in the air or something. Sometimes his allergies get pretty bad.

Hugo’s set isn't bad, but it's nothing special in Dillon’s eyes. He spends most of it on the side with Porter and Anton, softly bobbing his head as they dance. He’s just not feeling it.

Porter’s set, however, is fantastic as always. Dillon’s now dancing wildly and Snapchatting like the proud friend he is. Halfway through, he goes to sit under the booth like he always does. He’s about to crawl over when he realizes Hugo’s there. Hugo’s staring up at Porter with awe in his eyes, and Dillon — Dillon’s kind of angry, actually. That’s _his_ spot under Porter’s booth. This is _their_ thing. It’s what they always do for each other at their respective shows — sit and make funny faces and Snapchat and drink. Dillon takes a swig of his vodka/Red Bull concoction. Whatever. That’s still _his_ space. He’s about to crawl over and shove Hugo aside when Porter drops a hand to run it through Hugo’s hair. Dillon freezes. He watches as Porter’s hand trails down Hugo's face, his thumb running circles around his chin. Hugo’s eyes flutter shut, and weirdly, the tension in Dillon’s chest is back. Suddenly, he doesn't want to be there at all.

-

They're drunk at the afterparty when Dillon finds Porter alone, grabbing two drinks from the bar.

“I don't like him,” Dillon slurs, leaning over the bar to look at his friend.

“Who?” Porter asks, looking around.

“Your new…. thing.” Dillon scoffs, not even knowing what’s gotten into him. “Henry whatever.”

Porter blinks at him. “You know his name, Dillon. You have no reason to not like him.” Porter pauses and stares at Dillon like he’s trying to make sense of him. He probably is. Dillon’s trying to make sense of himself, in all honesty. “Do you?”

“I — He speaks weird.” Dillon struggles.

“He’s French,” Porter scoffs.

“His nose is too button-y.”

Porter blushes. “I think it's cute,” he says softly.

And suddenly Dillon’s angry again, and a little sad too. He’s not quite sure what he’s feeling, but he's not feeling okay, and he doesn't know why.

“He looks like he's fucking fifteen.” Dillon snaps. As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dillon wants to take them back.

Porter takes a step back. He looks angry now too. His face is scrunched; he’s red but the lights are purple. His eyes are cold.

“Talk to me when you're not fucking literal fifteen year olds.” he hisses.

And he deserved that, Dillon knows, but he still can't help the the “fuck you” that slips out as Porter walks away. He’s angry. He doesn't understand any of it. He watches Porter walk the drinks over to Hugo and take his hand. He feels sober suddenly. His body hurts; his chest is aching and the lights seem so bright, he blinks against them. He doesn't know what's going on but he knows he hates it. It’s then that Wes walks up to him, head cocked and a handle in his hand. Dillon doesn’t think, just takes it and chugs.

-

He wakes up to a splash of water on his face. He groans. His mouth tastes disgusting — it's so dry, he can barely swallow. A cup of water appears before him, and Dillon blinks up to see Wes, staring at him resignedly. Dillon abruptly realizes he's not in his own apartment.

“You’re pathetic.” Wes says as Dillon takes the cup and drinks greedily. Dillon glares at him.

Wes shakes his head. “Ibuprofen,” he says, setting a bottle down on the side table before walking away. Dillon frantically takes two — his head is throbbing — before turning back into the pillow.

When he wakes up again, an hour later, he's feeling considerably better, but his mouth still tastes vile. He shuffles into the living room, where Wes is sitting with Lazer, coffee in hand. Wes whispers something to Lazer and the kid goes running before Dillon can even croak out a hello. He watches the toddler run past him, a soft smile quirking his lips.

“So,” Wes says. Dillon turns back to look at him, starts to make his way over to the couch. “You’re in love with Porter.”

Dillon stops. Blinks. “Um… what?”

“You know, at first, I didn't believe it. I mean, you? Feelings? What a joke.” Wes laughs, shaking his head. “But man. It’s so obvious. Why didn't you just tell me? You know I love you man.”

Dillon shakes his head this time. The weight in his chest is back, but he fakes a laugh. “Dude what the fuck? I’m not in love with Porter.”

Wes frowns. “Last night, I watched you get belligerently drunk and curse Hugo out from across the room for stealing Porter. Man, it was so fucking sad. I didn't know what the fuck to do with you. I literally dragged you back here.”

Dillon blinks. Did that happen? He doesn't remember.

“Also, you exclusively hook up with pale brunettes.” Wes continues. “I don't know how I didn't notice earlier.”

Dillon’s in shock. He’s barely been properly awake for ten minutes and Wes is accusing him of being in love with his best friend.

“I’m not… I don't…” Dillon struggles. “I’ve never thought of Porter like that?”

Wes stares at him. “Don't lie to me. You know I’m okay with the gay.”

Dillon grimaces at Wes’s phrasing, but shakes his head. “It’s not… I wouldn't lie.”

Wes shakes his head, then sighs. “Okay man. Sure.”

He gets up from the couch. Dillon stares at the space next to him. He needs to sit down, maybe. They should trade places. “I’m taking the kids to their mom’s. You want a ride home?”

-

After Wes drops him off, Dillon stumbles into the shower. The water is hot, almost too much, but the pressure’s nice. He rests his forehead against the marble. It's been a long 24 hours. Dillon doesn't know what to think of it all. He thinks about what Wes said. About being in love with Porter.

Porter.

Dillon thinks about him too. He thinks about their friendship. The banter and laughter and lazy days in the studio. The coffee runs in the morning, movie times at night. He thinks about all the times Porter’s picked him up at awful hours of the night. About the times he's picked Porter up, bridal style, and run around with him until he's panting and they're both laughing, laughing. He thinks about how he has a hall closet with his own clothes at Porter’s and how Porter has a key to his apartment. He thinks about Porter’s crooked smile, and the way his eyes shine when he laughs, and his stupid peace sign winks. He thinks about Hugo, and how much he hates him. And Dillon thinks, eyes wet even though they're not under the water, that Wes might be right this time.


End file.
